


3. Making History

by Iolre



Series: 100 Themes Challenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Angst, Drabble, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been a year since Sherlock committed suicide. John has finally gotten the courage to pack all of his things up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	3. Making History

John had to steady himself, grasping the back of the chair briefly as he fought to retain his balance. His limp had come back mere weeks after Sherlock’s death and had got progressively worse. Knowing it was psychosomatic did absolutely nothing to fix it, and he refused to go back to the rubbish therapist. He had avoided the internet as much as possible, particularly the blogosphere. It was still too painful.

Sherlock was gone. He knew it. He had accepted it – yet, it still hurt. A faint smile danced about his lips as he surveyed the wreck that was the main living area of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock’s papers, untouched all these months, still inhabited the majority of the available space. John had resorted to the same chair he had sat in when – when Sherlock was alive. He had left almost everything alone. The only exceptions were the experiments that had started to decay, as Mrs. Hudson had started to complain about the smell. He had even removed the ones from Sherlock’s bedroom, although those were the only things he touched.

Slowly, lovingly John packed away Sherlock’s papers and other assorted belongings from the downstairs into boxes. He wasn’t going to get rid of it – he couldn’t do that. Mycroft was going to come pick up the boxes. John was going to keep Sherlock’s room the way it was – it was part of his history, part of his life. Eventually, maybe, he could move on. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Some things of Sherlock’s outside of his room stayed, like his skull. The last bullet holes in the wall. The way he had the furniture arranged. His violin. He knew Sherlock would laugh at his sentimentality, but he didn’t care. Sherlock wasn’t there to laugh at or with him.

John smiled at some items. He frowned at others. Some made his heart skip a beat. All were reminders of memories they had shared, of their friendship. To John, many were reminders of the love he had had for Sherlock. The love that he had never been able to tell Sherlock about. Not that he minded, of course. He knew Sherlock didn’t take well to pesky things like emotions. Maybe it had been better off that way. Pausing in his sorting, John smiled sadly at the wall. He doubted it.

Three gentle knocks on the door pulled him out of his reverie. Sighing, he limped over and opened it up. Mycroft, dressed in his typical three-piece suit, smiled his frightening smile at him. John just shrugged and walked into the flat. It was still tough for him to deal with Mycroft. He reminded him too much of Sherlock, at times. “Ahh, Dr. Watson. I am here for Sherlock’s possessions?”

“The boxes, yes,” John said, turning and gesturing to the several large boxes in the main living area. He watched, somewhat amused, as several large men in fancy suits came in and picked up the boxes while Mycroft merely stood there, watching John as if he was going to do something interesting. John’s face was sad, his thoughts distant. For all he cared, Mycroft could have been halfway across the street. The boxes disappeared quickly as did the workers, leaving the two in silence. Mycroft cleared his throat, causing John to start.

“Is that all?” Mycroft asked politely. John nodded. The silence dragged on a bit, John staring into space.

“I miss him,” he finally said. He grasped the metal handle of his cane, refusing to look at Mycroft.

“As do I,” Mycroft said after letting the silence drag on for quite a bit. He looked as though it had pained him significantly to say those words. John merely nodded. After a few more seconds of silence, Mycroft turned around and walked out of the flat, closing the door carefully behind him.

John closed his eyes briefly, savouring the sudden silence. Slowly he walked up to Sherlock’s room and opened the door. Besides the decaying experiments, everything was exactly the way it had been left the day Sherlock died. There were so many memories here. Good ones, bad ones. Bittersweet ones. John’s free hand caressed the door, his mind lost in the past. The Fall had been the worst thing that had happened to him. A year later, and he still missed him desperately.

What pained him the most was the sacrifices that Sherlock had made. The things he had said before he died – that he had lied. That he couldn’t do what he did. Things that John knew were utterly ridiculous. Sherlock could have done so much good if he had lived, and he had – John stiffened in anger – he had thrown it away. The tension passed eventually as John stood in the doorway, just watching and remembering. Slowly he backed away and closed the door. He would talk to Mycroft. Mycroft would make it so that Sherlock could be remembered as a good person. History needed heroes – maybe Sherlock could be one.


End file.
